


Of Pancakes and Poison

by musesofaninsomniac



Series: Shenanigans and Tomfoolery [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: ALL THE CRACK, Crack, F/F, Friendship, Funny, Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesofaninsomniac/pseuds/musesofaninsomniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Clinton Francis Barton,” the god says, with a grin that has far too many teeth for his peace of mind, and he really, really doesn’t like where this is going. “It is my wish to court you for your hand in the brotherly art of Midgardian friendship."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Pancakes and Poison

During the first week Loki comes to stay in the Avengers Tower, Clint attempts to poison him one hundred and fifty times. Per _day_.

Clint appreciates the fact that the other Avengers take it in stride, at least after Steve declares all the coffee makers neutral territory in the wreckage of the disaster on day three—now a day marked in history as BlackIron Wednesday, otherwise known as “That time Stark and Romanoff went apeshit because of caffeine withdrawal and I had to put the motherfucking protectors of the entire Earth under quarantine,” or “That thing with the plunger that will haunt my nightmares _forever_ , Barton, I _hate_ you.”

For the record, Clint is still sorry about that. He’s not even sure _Loki_ deserves those images in his mind.

Clint still takes his team’s collective silence as unspoken agreement to keep trying to kill Loki, for the good of humanity, even though he knows they’re basically just letting him vent. After a week of unsuccessful poisoning attempts, however, he is forced to get more…creative. Because of reasons. Reasons that involve his integrity as an assassin, and have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that _apparently_ , arsenic turns the Hulk bright, Pepto-Bismol pink and gives him the urge to snuggle people like teddy bears, which a certain team of giant betrayers solves by shoving their devilishly handsome archer into the big guy’s waiting arms and filming the result on ten different cameras.

And then putting it on YouTube.

So he stops poisoning Loki and starts pursuing other ventures. Which is how Tony wanders into the kitchen next Monday, yawning and very clearly hung over, only to stop dead and blink at the mess of batter and wiring on the table, and then blink at him. He blinks back.

“Are you—?” Tony starts. Stops. Tries again. “Are you _actually_ —?”

“Yup.”

“You’re making _explosive muffins_. Muffins. That _explode_.”

“I already said yes, man.” Clint frowns. “Date wear you out? You’re not at your sharpest, bro, get some coffee. Promise it’s not poisoned.”

Tony nods slowly, amber eyes narrowed at the tray of innocent, delicious-looking orange-cranberry muffins already assembled on the edge of the table.

“Just so I know what to say, when Fury asks me after that psych evaluation you have on Thursday that he still thinks is a surprise, you are aware this is getting ridiculous, right?” the genius asks deliberately. “And that you’re apparently following the assassination guidelines set by 90s cartoons?”

The archer just shrugs. “I figure it’s an approach Loki won’t suspect. Plus, don’t try and pretend you’re not curious to see death by explosive muffin.”

“It would be one for the history books,” Tony concedes, cradling a mug of steaming hot coffee in his hands. “But don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far? I mean, I get evening the score, but at some point I would like to open my own fridge and not have JARVIS scan for potentially death-inducing produce. Do you know how troubling it is to do that every morning?”

“Do you know how troubling it is to be mind-whammied by a Norse God with a clear inferiority complex?” Clint counters sweetly.

Stark scowls at him. “Ugh, fine. I haven’t had nearly enough caffeine to deal with this yet.” He turns to head down to his workshop, pausing to point a finger at the archer. “But this little temper tantrum has _got_ to end, you understand me? And _soon_. I’m not exactly a patient guy.”

He just shrugs. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I’m serious,” he threatens, and for once he actually looks serious. “I want my damn fridge back. Kiss and make nice, or I will take matters into my own hands.”

He _so_ doesn’t make nice.

Also, his muffins wind up destroying an entire wing of the Avengers Tower and part of Tony’s workshop.

Somehow he thinks both of these are contributing factors in what happens after their latest battle with Dr. Doom.

Loki has been tagging along to their battles since his second night in the Avengers Tower. While Fury explicitly banned him from fighting himself (“Be assured, mortal, my interest in your petty affairs could not possibly be less,” Loki had rolled his eyes), Clint was pretty sure the sneaky bastard got involved anyway. Enemies would sometimes look over their shoulder, pausing at exactly the right moment to be hit. Or they would trip and stumble over their own feet, stare vacantly into the air, or do any number of seemingly random things that wound up making them really, really, appallingly easy to take down. It irritates the _living fuck_ out of Clint.

Which, well. Point.

During the battle in question, Loki had seemed content enough to sit on the sidelines and laugh as Thor got pummeled by Doombots. For the first time in what felt like forever, Clint had taken down his targets the way he wanted, without a single one of them tripping, falling, or breaking out into choreographed dance numbers from the 50s. (He will admit that Steve’s face was priceless). By the time the fight is over, he’s actually humming to himself as he scans himself for injuries, checks over his bow. Nothing. This is the start of a very good day, he decides to himself.

Which is of course when he turns around and sees Loki holding out a daisy.

“Clinton Francis Barton,” the god says, with a grin that has far too many teeth for his peace of mind, and he really, really doesn’t like where this is going. “It is my wish to court you for your hand in the brotherly art of Midgardian friendship. A token of our soon-to-come bond, for you.”

He proffers the flower again, and Clint takes it dumbly because _what the motherfucking hell_.

“How did you know daisies were my favorite flower?” is the only thing he can think to say, but Loki has already vanished in a whirl of green light, and he has no idea what’s going on but he can see Tony out of the corner of his eye, shaking so hard he’s using Thor’s shoulder to hold himself up. Steve’s face is buried in his back, and all three of them are _howling_ with laughter.

Clint is finding new friends.

 

That night he calls Natasha, who’s on special assignment tailing some drug trafficker somewhere in…Tunisia? Ghana? He can’t even keep track.

“I hate everything,” he grumbles first thing into the phone, curled up in a blanket in the little corner—it is absolutely not a “nest”, fuck you, Bruce—he’s fleshed out for himself in the living room’s ceiling beams.

“What’s w—Oh, shut up, Miguel! Just one second, okay?” the Black Widow says brightly, and he can hear the sound of moaning in the background. “Can’t you see I’m trying to talk to someone? Oh my God, are you crying? I don’t even have you tied that tight!”

There’s a few minutes of indistinct noises, some light screaming, before she picks up the phone again. “Alright, I’m back. What’s wrong?”

“Loki,” the archer snaps. The name comes out like a curse.

“What did he do?” Nat’s voice is abruptly sharp. “Did he hurt you? I’m coming home—”

“He gave me a daisy and asked for my hand in friendship.”

“Seriously, Clint.”

“Seriously, Nat,” he matches her tone perfectly, and curls a little tighter into his blanket. “Loki gave me a daisy and asked for my hand in friendship.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then Clint hears muffled gasping and knows his girlfriend is laughing at him.

“I hate you,” he pouts. In a totally justified, manly fashion. “This can only end badly. Like with my death. You realize this?”

“Sss-sorry—oh god—oh god,” she gasps, and there’s a soft click that lets him know Natasha has set the phone down. It doesn’t help; he can _still hear her_ laughing.

“Oh, where did this happen?” She demands ten whole minutes later, when she finally gets back on the phone. “Was Tony there to film it? Tell me Tony was there to film it. Is it on YouTube?”

“I’m hanging up on you,” he tells her, not that she’s listening.

“Miguel says it’s not on YouTube,” she replies, and she actually sounds disappointed. “I’m calling Tony, the world needs to see this.”

“DON’T YOU DARE,” he’s shouting into a dial tone. “I mean it, Nat. I will tell them about Budapest. And Moscow. I will tell them about _New Orleans_ , Nat. NATASHA!”

“Hello?” he hears Tony’s voice below him in the living room. “Of course I got it on camera; who do you think you’re talking to? I’m sending video to your phone right now…”

Clint is never leaving this blanket ever fucking again.


End file.
